


Kingdom Of One

by carolinecrane



Category: D2: The Mighty Ducks (1994), Mighty Ducks (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinecrane/pseuds/carolinecrane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he thinks about L.A. he thinks about heat, but not because of the weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingdom Of One

When he thinks about L.A. at all he thinks about heat. That's nothing unusual; most people associate L.A. with heat, after all, and it's not like anyone ever pays much attention to his opinions anyway. He's pretty sure most of his teammates don't even know he _can_ think, let alone suspect that he actually does. To them he's just the muscle; sure, he can shoot and he's getting a little better at actually hitting the goal, but he knows they mainly keep him around to stop other, bigger teams from putting the rest of them in the hospital.

So there's not much danger of any of them guessing his secret - not even Charlie, although Fulton's caught Charlie looking at him funny a time or two since he joined the team. He thinks he knows why; Charlie's the kind of guy who wants to know everybody's story, wants to make sure they're happy and that they feel included. It makes him a perfect captain, but it makes him a dangerous friend for a guy like Fulton Reed.

He's never been a big fan of danger, never let people get close enough to him to become a threat. There's hockey, sure, but that's just a game, and he knows no matter how out of control he gets on the inside, there are people around to pull him back. There's Coach Bombay, and the refs, and even his teammates when he really takes things too far. Not that it happens much, but sometimes, when a bigger guy from another team tries to crush Kenny, or goes gunning for Banks' wrist on purpose...

Those are the times he feels his control start to slip a little, but there's always someone to rein him in. The team kept him and Portman from killing each other when they first met at the Goodwill Games, and later, once they were friends, Portman became another one of the people who he knew would never let him take it too far on the ice. Off the ice, though...well, that's another situation altogether. When he's off the ice there's no one around to hold him back, nobody to catch him when he gets too close to that edge and starts to fall. He's learned over the years to be careful, but there are certain things he never could have been ready for.

Like the fact that the one person who's supposed to help him keep control on the ice is the person who makes him lose control in all kinds of new, terrifying ways he's pretty sure he'll never get used to. The person who's practically a mirror of himself - okay, maybe Portman's got more confidence than he could ever have, but still, they have a lot in common - is the one person who's ever made him think crazy things that he doesn't understand.

Oh, he knows what they mean, because he's been around enough to hear the words 'queer' and 'cocksucker' tossed around on the street, and he's heard about what those kind of guys do together. He knows enough to be able to guess exactly what would happen if anybody from the neighborhood found out he's thinking those exact things about Portman, and he knows he can't ever tell anybody on the team just what it feels like to finally let himself lose control.

Well. There's one person on the team he can tell, but he'd never find the words and it doesn't matter anyway because Portman was there when it happened the first time. And even if Portman doesn't know exactly what it feels like for Fulton, he's seen him wide-eyed and shaking, on the verge of running if only his knees would stop trembling long enough for him to bolt. He's felt shaky, unsure hands on his body over his clothes, then later under his clothes, and he's seen the way Fulton's stomach trembles when Portman runs his tongue along that little line of hair just below his belly button.

He's still not exactly sure how it happened; he remembers Julie catching that final puck and the whole arena going crazy, remembers being hugged by various members of the team until he couldn't tell anymore who was touching him. He remembers the frenzy in the locker room afterwards, the buzz of energy in the air as they all changed out of their gear and back into their street clothes. He remembers catching Portman's eye a couple times and attributing the flutter in his stomach to post-win excitement, and he remembers somewhere along the way following the rest of them to a celebratory party with lots of food and soda and camera flashes going off every few seconds.

He remembers the party noise and the random pats on the back in a long, colorful blur, faces and conversations all blending together. But a few things stand out in his mind about the party; namely looking across the room and catching Portman watching him, the fluttery feeling in his stomach doing an encore when he grinned and Portman smiled back at him. He remembers wanting to cross the room and smile up close just to see what would happen, but he wasn't sure he could make it all the way across the room while his stomach was doing that thing.

He didn't know what that thing in his stomach meant at the time. He does now.

It wasn't until the party was over and Bombay was rounding them all up and sending them back to their dorm that he actually talked to Portman, and even then it couldn't really be considered a conversation. He remembers falling into step next to his roommate, The Bash Brothers sticking together because that was who they were, at least while they were still in L.A. And even now his throat gets kind of thick at the thought of how soon after that he was in Minneapolis and they weren't The Bash Brothers anymore, because even six months later he misses being part of something.

Sure, he's still got the Ducks, no matter what Orion or those varsity assholes think. He's still part of the team, but it's not the same anymore. It's the only reason he's still stuck in a preppy boarding school where he doesn't fit in and the teachers look at him like he's not worth it just because he doesn't wear the right clothes or cut his hair the right way, but he's starting to wonder if it's worth it. Because it's not the same anymore, with Banks and Charlie at each other's throats and the rest of the team miserable.

And oh yeah, Portman's not around.

He's not sure why Portman didn't show up, but sometimes he wonders if it has something to do with the night they beat Iceland and won the Goodwill Games. He tells himself that's not it, that Portman's the one who started it and if anybody has room for regrets it's him. After all, he's the one who lost control that night, who did things and said things he can't ever take back. He was the one treading brand-new territory, and even though he never asked he has a feeling that it wasn't Portman's first time.

His whole world changed the second he closed their dorm room door and found himself pressed against it. He can still feel Portman's breath on his cheek even now, his voice low and husky and his hands so hot against Fulton's skin.

 _You can beat the shit outta me for this if you want, but I've been dying to do this since I first laid eyes on you._

Portman's words, not his, and they didn't sound a whole lot like regret at the time. The kiss didn't feel much like regret either, not the first one, which was too short and too dry because Fulton was so shocked he couldn't bring himself to kiss back. He remembers Portman staring at him for a few seconds after he pulled away, his head tilted a little like he was trying to work out Fulton's reaction. Then he grinned and leaned forward again, and this time Fulton did kiss back. That kiss wasn't about regret at all; it wasn't about thinking or consequences or the high they were both still riding from their win. It was wet and breathless and rough enough for Fulton to taste blood at one point, but he'd bled plenty on the ice and he could take a little pain if it meant he got...this.

He didn't know what to call it at the time. He thinks he does now, and that's the reason he's sort of grateful that Portman never showed up at Eden Hall. Sometimes he thinks that's the reason Portman stayed away, because he's just as scared as Fulton of what would happen if they saw each other again. And as much as he tries to tell himself that Portman made the right decision, he can't help feeling betrayed by the fact that he's stuck here alone.

Sure, he could quit, drop out and go back to Minneapolis, back to playing hockey in the alley behind his building with an old trunk for a goal. He could go back to public school and ignore the rumors, let everyone talk about why he came crawling back from his fancy private school. He knows exactly what they'd say, knows they'd assume he got kicked out for fighting or being too stupid or not being good enough to control the puck. But none of that bothers him; he's used to being talked about, and he knows the other kids still fear him enough not to say it to his face.

The thing that stops him from going home is that he's not the same guy he was back before District 5 and, more importantly, the Goodwill Games. And maybe he could fake it for awhile, because he still looks the same and he knows nobody looks at him closely enough to see the differences. But he's not sure how long he can keep up the act, not now that he knows what he's missing. What he's missing is Dean Portman, and he doesn't know how he's ever going to fill a hole like that, so it doesn't really matter whether he's home or here at Eden Hall.

So he stays here, because all he's got left is what's left of the team and he doesn't want to be the next one to let Charlie down. He doesn't want that disappointment turned on him, not when he's seen what it's done to Banks. Besides, there's nothing waiting for him at home, so he might as well stay and at least get to play hockey with his friends. It's not much, but it's about all he's going to get so he figures he can find a way to be okay with that. And maybe he spends a little too much free time alone in his room, staring at the ceiling and remembering that one night back in L.A., but what the guys don't know won't hurt them, right?

And they don't need to know that when he's alone he thinks about Portman, about the way his hands felt on Fulton's skin and the way his tongue darted out to catch the blood where he split Fulton's lip with a kiss. They'll never see the apology in Portman's eyes when he tasted blood and realized what he'd done, and they'll sure as hell never know how frantically Fulton held on when he tried to back off, to start apologizing out loud or maybe to come to his senses and say they were making a big mistake.

It didn't feel like a mistake that night - even through the terror and the humiliation of not having a fucking clue what he was doing, Fulton knew it wasn't a mistake. Sure, his hands were trembling the whole time, and some of the details get lost in the haze of fear and lust and raw need clawing at his insides every time he thinks about it, but at the time it hadn't seemed like Portman minded.

He'd never felt anything like it before, and he has a sinking feeling he's never going to feel anything like it again. Six months later and he's still craving that hot, itchy need just under his skin, his fingers still twitch whenever a memory sneaks up on him in class or on the ice during practice. That's when it's the worst, because he can't set foot in the locker room without thinking about Portman, remembering how much they hated each other at first, and he can't help smiling at that because now he knows that it was never hate at all. Wishes he'd known it sooner, because then they would have had a whole week together instead of just that one night, but maybe it wouldn't have been the same if it happened right away. Maybe they needed to circle each other for awhile, figure out exactly what they were reacting to before they finally gave in to it.

Only he's still not sure he knows, and now he's never going to figure it out. Not without Portman, without the other half of what the papers described as the perfect team. And they were perfect, but not for the reasons all the sports writers said the day after the Goodwill Games. They were perfect together for that one night, hot and sweat-slick and messy and awkward and more _right_ than anything Fulton could ever imagine. He'd never seen it coming and he didn't have a clue what he was doing, but he knows enough to know it's never going to be that perfect again.

He wants to be mad at Portman for blowing him off. He wants to think of him as a coward, to believe that he didn't show up at Eden Hall because he's too chicken to face Fulton. Most of all, though, he just wants to know whether Portman thinks about it at all, and if, when he does, the word 'mistake' comes to mind. There's no way he's going to call him and find out, even if he had Portman's number. He wouldn't do it even if he thought he could find the words to ask, because he's Fulton Reed and he's got a reputation to live up to. It doesn't matter that nobody else would know, that Portman wouldn't tell anybody, because Fulton would know, and that would be enough.

So he doesn't talk about it and he tries not to think about it too much, and he's back to working on that control he let get away from him for one night in L.A. But he doesn't regret what happened, because it makes him work a little harder, focus a little more to keep the memories from sneaking up on him at all the wrong times. And he doesn't even mind that it's changed him, that he can never go back and be that kid he was when he first stepped off the plane in L.A. Maybe he won't even understand all the changes for a long time, but he knows he feels different even if he still looks exactly the same. He still wears old, faded concert t-shirts and smiling still comes a little slowly to him, he doesn't talk any more than he used to, and he still wears the same bandana he's always worn.

Only now he thinks of Portman every time he puts his bandana on, and when his mind wanders in class or during one of Coach Orion's boring lectures it usually wanders back to that dorm room in L.A., and he ends up having to think about winter in Minneapolis and air so cold he can see his breath just to control his body's reaction to the memory. It's dangerous and he knows he should find a way to stop remembering at all, but he can't bring himself to let it go. It's the only thing he has left of The Bash Brothers besides a reputation that he can't keep up without Portman by his side, and there's no way he's going to give up the only thing he's got left.

He tries to tell himself that the memory's better than nothing, and every so often he can almost believe that one perfect memory is better than the inevitable awkwardness that would have followed if Portman had actually accepted his scholarship. It doesn't take long for him to stop believing that lie, but it always makes him feel a little better while he can. It's enough to make him believe that it's all been worth it - the Ducks, the Goodwill Games, playing JV hockey for a prep school where he'll never fit in, even that last, lingering kiss backed up against their dorm room door.

He thinks that might be his favorite memory of all, better than the memory of Portman's hands on his dick or his mouth on Fulton's skin. His favorite memory is of Portman catching his hand just before he pulled the door open, shaking his head when Fulton opened his mouth to ask what he was doing. Then Portman was pressed up against him just like he was the night before, and he forgot about the airport, about planes to catch and the miles that would separate them way too soon. He forgot about the rest of the team waiting for them in the hall, even managed to block out the sound of Averman banging on the other side of the door and yelling for them to hurry up.

It was over way too soon and then they were hurrying out the door and down the hall, and Fulton's head was spinning so much he felt a little dizzy. He was sure if any of them just looked at him they'd be able to read what had happened all over his face, but his friends never really looked at him any more than the rest of the world did. It was the only time he's ever been grateful that they don't seem to notice him in spite of his size.

He didn't talk much on the trip back to Minneapolis, but he never talks much so nobody noticed there was something not quite right about him. Or maybe it was that everything was right for the first time in his life; either way he couldn't talk about it then and he doesn't want to talk about it now. He goes through the motions of school and practice, makes sure he keeps his mind in the game so the coach doesn't have a reason to single him out. When Varsity starts in on the smaller guys he stands up for them, but it feels just as hollow as the rest of his life now.

The only thing that feels real anymore is the memory of smooth, solid wood against his back and hot, solid muscle against his front, hands on his clothes and then working their way under, Portman's mouth on his and his temperature rising so much he thought he might have a permanent blush. If he closes his eyes and lets himself he can still remember Portman's touch, feel hot breath against his neck and hotter fingers pushing his shirt up and off. He remembers every drop of sweat that trickled down his neck that night, remembers pushing sweat-damp hair off his forehead and clutching the sheets so tight his knuckles burned with the effort.

He remembers the heat of Portman's mouth, possessive and sweet against his when they panted against each other. He remembers the mingled ecstasy and terror of coming from someone else's touch for the first time, covered in sweat and certain he'd never be able to make Portman feel as good as he did at that moment. Even the memory of waking up too hot and way too sticky with Portman still draped half on top of him makes him smile, and if anybody else notices the occasional crooked grins that appear out of nowhere they never ask.

And he knows he'll never have that again, because even though he's young and he has his whole life ahead of him he can never get his first time back, and he can never get Portman back. Most of the time he's okay with that, and on those rare occasions when he's not he just skates a little harder or hits the puck a little harder, checks the opposing team a little harder than usual. He never lets himself lose control completely, because he knows now what it feels like and he's pretty sure once he starts he won't be able to stop.

When he thinks about L.A. he thinks about heat, but not because of the weather.


End file.
